Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lucas
I woke up to the scent of coffee and the sound of muffled laughter drifting down the hall. For a second, I just lay there, taking it in—the quiet hum of life in Ella’s house, the subtle warmth of the sheets that still held her scent. It was a far cry from the mornings I used to have, waking up alone in a sleek, impersonal apartment, my first thoughts about damage control rather than…this.
This was different. Better.
A few months ago, before I reconnected with Ella, my life had been consumed by the weight of my last name, the mess my father had left behind, and the constant battle to separate myself from it. Now, I was engaged to the woman I wanted more than anything, and I had Bess—bright, mischievous Bess—who had accepted me like I’d always belonged.
I rolled out of bed, pulled on a shirt, and followed the sounds into the kitchen.
Bess was perched on a stool, watching Ella with the intense focus of someone solving an impossible puzzle. “No, not that one,” Bess declared, shaking her head at the blouse Ella held up. “You need to wear something fancy today. Museum fancy.”
Ella shot me a helpless look over her shoulder. “Apparently, I’m not qualified to dress myself anymore.”
I grinned and leaned against the counter. “Sounds about right.”
Bess beamed at my agreement and grabbed another option. “This one.” She held up a soft blue blouse, nodding like she had just brokered a world peace agreement.
Ella sighed but took it, turning to wink at Bess. “I don’t know why I even pretend to have a say anymore.”
By the time we were all ready, Bess was practically vibrating with energy. The second we pulled out of the driveway, she twisted in her booster seat and asked, “When are we going to pick out Mom’s wedding dress?”
Ella turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Your daughter’s got a timeline.”
Bess huffed. “I’m not his daughter. Yet.” She squinted at me. “But if you do a good job, I guess you can be my stepdad.”
I bit back a laugh. “Good to know I’m still in the probation period.”
She nodded, very seriously. “And we need to pick out my flower girl dress, too.”
Ella laughed and reached back to squeeze Bess’s hand. “I promise, we’ll go soon.”
Bess looked satisfied with that answer, and by the time we pulled up to the preschool, she had moved on to talking about her latest playground rivalry. We walked her inside, and before she ran off, she gave us both tight hugs, whispering to Ella that she was going to tell all her friends about the wedding.
When we got back in the car, Ella exhaled, shaking her head. “Well, I guess we’re officially on a deadline.”
I smirked. “Better get moving, then.”
She shot me a mock glare but leaned back, her fingers drumming against her knee. I started the engine but didn’t pull out just yet.
Instead, I glanced at her and asked, “What’s the story with Bess’s dad?”
Ella blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve never heard anyone mention him,” I said carefully. “Not Bess, not your parents. And you never bring him up.”
Ella was quiet for a moment, staring out the windshield like she was debating how much to say.
Finally, she sighed. “Kelly was… a wild child. She did what she wanted, lived fast, never thought too far ahead. Bess was a surprise—at least, she was to everyone but Kelly. She never really said who the father was and never admitted it to Mom or me. Then she got sick with leukemia, and our focus was only my sister’s recovery.”
I frowned. “Never? No idea at all?”
Ella shook her head. “Kelly partied hard while she was in college. But she was secretive when it came to Bess. If she knew who the father was, she took that answer with her.”
That didn’t sit right with me, but I kept my thoughts to myself. The idea that some guy might be out there, completely unaware he had a daughter like Bess, pissed me off more than I cared to admit.
“I just figured someone would’ve tried to track him down,” I said.
“My mom did,” Ella admitted. “But Kelly had a way of shutting down conversations she didn’t want to have. She was stubborn like that.” She let out a breath and looked at me. “Bess has never asked about it. She’s always had my parents, and now she has me. And maybe she’ll have questions one day, but right now? She’s happy. She’s loved. That’s what matters. I realize that someday, when I least suspect it, she will have questions about who her father is.” She turned to face me. “And I’m not at all sure how to handle that question.”
I studied her for a moment, then reached over and took her hand. “You did right by her.”
Ella gave me a small smile. “I hope so.”
I squeezed her fingers before letting go. “I know so.”
She exhaled, and some of the tension left her shoulders.
I pulled the car onto the road, heading toward the Ocean View Museum. The closer we got, the more her confidence seemed to shift into something tighter—anticipation, maybe even nerves.
“Relax,” I murmured, reaching over to squeeze her hand again. “It’s going to be perfect.”
She let out a breath. “You don’t know that.”
I glanced at her, taking in the way she fidgeted. “Ella, I know you. And I’ve seen you put this thing together piece by piece. If anyone can make this a success, it’s you.”
She gave me a small smile, but I could tell the tension was still there. I squeezed her hand again, watching as the museum came into view, its modern glass facade gleaming under the morning sun.
“Besides,” I added, smirking, “I think Bess is the only one with real authority around here, and she already signed off on your outfit. What else could go wrong?”
Ella rolled her eyes, but I caught the way her lips twitched, the nerves loosening just a little.
That was all I needed.
The moment we stepped into the museum the air shifted. It was quiet, save for the low hum of employees making last-minute adjustments and the soft echo of our footsteps on the marble floors. But beneath the stillness, there was an energy—a kind of charged anticipation that came with an opening day.
Maria was already waiting for us near the entrance, tablet in hand, her expression hovering somewhere between excitement and controlled panic. “Okay, so we’ve had a smooth setup so far,” she said as soon as we reached her. “All pieces are in position, security measures are up, and the lighting has been adjusted twice. No disasters yet.”
“Yet?” I repeated, arching a brow.
Maria gave me a dry look. “I’ve worked in museums long enough to know that just because everything looks perfect now, doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way.” She turned back to Ella. “But so far, we’re in the clear.”
Ella nodded, already in work mode. “Good. I want to do one last walkthrough, just to be sure.”
Maria stepped aside, knowing better than to argue.
I followed as Ella moved through the main exhibit hall, her pace unhurried but purposeful. This wasn’t nervous energy—this was precision. She wasn’t just skimming the room; she was reading it, scanning every inch like an artist checking the final brushstroke on a masterpiece.
And it was a masterpiece.
The collection was stunning, a vibrant homage to Marc Chagall’s signature dreamlike style. Instead of focusing on finding The Village , Ella had curated a lineup of his best works—pieces showcasing his talent’s full range. The deep blues and soft pastels of The Blue Circus drew the eye immediately, while the whimsy of Bride and Groom with Eiffel Tower balanced it with a romantic touch. Lovers in Blue exuded a quiet intimacy, and The Fiddler —the painting inspired by the famous Broadway musical—stood as a testament to Chagall’s deep connection to Jewish folklore.
Then there was The Circus Rider , the renowned piece on loan from the Met, its bold colors and abstract figures practically vibrating with movement.
Ella took her time at each display, checking the placement, the lighting, and the small plaques with the descriptions.
She was in her element.
I leaned against one of the support pillars, watching her. There was something different about the way she carried herself here—something sharp and commanding. I’d always known she was brilliant at what she did, but this was the first time I was seeing her not just as the woman who worked behind the scenes…
She owned this space.
The Ella I had known for years had been hesitant and careful. The Ella standing in front of me now? She had no doubt.
She turned, catching me watching her, and raised a brow. “What?”
I smirked. “Nothing. Just enjoying the show.”
She huffed, shaking her head, but there was a small smile playing on her lips as she moved to the next piece.
Yeah, she had this. No question about it.
I was still watching Ella when a woman’s voice cut through the quietness of the gallery.
“Lucas.”
I turned to find Maria walking toward me, her expression tense. “Reporters are outside. They’re asking for you.”
I stiffened. I should’ve seen this coming. My father’s guilty plea had made headlines, and the press was circling like vultures.
Ella frowned as Maria stood beside us. “We didn’t invite the media today,” Maria said, her voice tight. “They are just fishing, hoping Lucas would be here this morning.”
Before I could respond, the noise outside escalated.
“Lucas, your father pled guilty—do you have a statement?”
“Are you taking over the Devereux Gallery?”
“How does it feel to be moving on with your life while your father faces sentencing?”
I exhaled slowly, keeping my tone measured as I addressed them. “This is an event that has nothing to do with my father. It’s not a press conference.” I refused to let my father’s sins overshadow Ella’s success. My focus wasn’t on the past.
It was about our future.
As the event wound down, I pulled her aside into a quiet corner. “You killed it today,” I murmured, caressing her cheek with my thumb.
Ella smiled. “Even with the interruptions?”
“Especially with them.” I kissed her, slow and deep. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
She smirked. “Even putting up with my stubbornness?”
I chuckled. “I think that’s my favorite part.”
With my arm around her waist, we walked to the car, eager to pick up Bess.